I was the younger son, born under open sky and whispered prayers. My name was Hevel—you might call me Abel. I tended sheep in wide pastures, following them through hills and valleys, singing to HaShem—the Name of God—as I walked. My brother Cain worked the land, digging and planting with hands hardened like stone.
We were both raised to know the One who created our parents, Adam and Chava—you may know her as Eve. They spoke of the Garden with longing, but also guilt. Still, they taught us mitzvot—the good and holy ways of living—even in exile, even with the thorns and dust of this new world.
I remember the day everything changed.
I had just returned from the hills. One of the lambs, the purest in the flock, had eaten from the sweet grass and grown strong. I felt something stir in me—gratitude, awe. So I prepared an offering, as our father taught us: not just any lamb, but the best. I believed HaShem deserved that much, even more. I laid it on the altar, my hands trembling not from fear, but from joy.
Cain had brought an offering too—grains from his field. But it wasn't the best, not the first fruits.
That evening, the fire from Above came for mine—but not his.
He said nothing at first. Just clenched his fists. His eyes, once sharp with curiosity, turned dark. I tried to break the silence: “Brother, walk with me. Let's go out to the field. You can tell me what’s troubling you.”
He nodded. We walked a little, side by side, saying nothing. The wind rustled stalks around us, as if even the earth tensed, waiting.
Then he turned.
I saw his eyes, wide and burning—like he didn’t see me anymore, just the flames of my sacrifice. His hands rose before mine could. The world tilted. Pain bloomed like the setting sun behind my eyes.
Then darkness.
They say my blood cried out from the ground.
I no longer walk the fields. But from where I dwell, I see everything. I see children who fight and make peace. Brothers who share, and sometimes still hurt. I see people ask why God didn’t protect me, why Cain was allowed to harm.
But I also see what was born after me: justice, kindness, teshuvah—return to God. People honoring the mitzvot. People learning to recognize jealousy before it grows sharp like a knife. People who offer not just gifts, but their hearts.
My story wasn't meant to end a chapter. It began one. A story of courage to do right, even when unnoticed. Of faith that God sees beyond the field, beyond this world. Of witness—that even silence speaks when injustice falls.
Tell my story so others may choose better than Cain did. Tell it, so no brother’s heart must break again.
I was the younger son, born under open sky and whispered prayers. My name was Hevel—you might call me Abel. I tended sheep in wide pastures, following them through hills and valleys, singing to HaShem—the Name of God—as I walked. My brother Cain worked the land, digging and planting with hands hardened like stone.
We were both raised to know the One who created our parents, Adam and Chava—you may know her as Eve. They spoke of the Garden with longing, but also guilt. Still, they taught us mitzvot—the good and holy ways of living—even in exile, even with the thorns and dust of this new world.
I remember the day everything changed.
I had just returned from the hills. One of the lambs, the purest in the flock, had eaten from the sweet grass and grown strong. I felt something stir in me—gratitude, awe. So I prepared an offering, as our father taught us: not just any lamb, but the best. I believed HaShem deserved that much, even more. I laid it on the altar, my hands trembling not from fear, but from joy.
Cain had brought an offering too—grains from his field. But it wasn't the best, not the first fruits.
That evening, the fire from Above came for mine—but not his.
He said nothing at first. Just clenched his fists. His eyes, once sharp with curiosity, turned dark. I tried to break the silence: “Brother, walk with me. Let's go out to the field. You can tell me what’s troubling you.”
He nodded. We walked a little, side by side, saying nothing. The wind rustled stalks around us, as if even the earth tensed, waiting.
Then he turned.
I saw his eyes, wide and burning—like he didn’t see me anymore, just the flames of my sacrifice. His hands rose before mine could. The world tilted. Pain bloomed like the setting sun behind my eyes.
Then darkness.
They say my blood cried out from the ground.
I no longer walk the fields. But from where I dwell, I see everything. I see children who fight and make peace. Brothers who share, and sometimes still hurt. I see people ask why God didn’t protect me, why Cain was allowed to harm.
But I also see what was born after me: justice, kindness, teshuvah—return to God. People honoring the mitzvot. People learning to recognize jealousy before it grows sharp like a knife. People who offer not just gifts, but their hearts.
My story wasn't meant to end a chapter. It began one. A story of courage to do right, even when unnoticed. Of faith that God sees beyond the field, beyond this world. Of witness—that even silence speaks when injustice falls.
Tell my story so others may choose better than Cain did. Tell it, so no brother’s heart must break again.
